


TTK

by TheNextPage



Series: Draxlembe / The PSG Prompt Page [6]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Exploration, M/M, Senses, Taste, Touch, kiss, snapshot moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 08:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16869553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNextPage/pseuds/TheNextPage





	1. Touch

They were at training, engaged in a light 5-on-5. Mbappe was running down the wing. Pres knew he would burst forth on a sprint, trying to leave him behind. That’s why he knew he couldn’t fall back, he had to charge at the bebe.   
And so he did. His left was ready to cut out the cross he knew Kylian would set up Di Maria with, who was overlapping them. But then Pres felt something… like a magnetic thrill racing down his spine. Julian.

Clattering into Kylian without grace, they both tumbled to the ground. Pres popped up, offering Kylian a hand to get up. He only half-heartedly mumbled an apology before he was trotting over to the other side of the grounds. Julian, Nkunku and a few others were running drills. But Julian wasn't running: he was standing still, looking as if he was waiting his turn. But there was something off. He was angled towards Pres unwittingly, eyes vacant and face entirely blank. As Pres jogged closer, still entirely convinced something was entirely not right, Julian looked up. His eyes were filmed in tears. His hand beside him was taut, fingers splayed flat as if silently screaming no. 

He locked eyes with Pres, a quiver flashed across his features before he was shaking his head slightly, a restrained 'No' even as his eyes pleaded for something.

Pres reached him as mild confusion rippled across training. Tuchel had his whistle to his lips but didn’t make a move. Pres had flicked his wrist, a hand waving over his shoulder as he ran off. The gesture communicated something along the lines of ‘Not now, don’t’.  
Taking Pres hand, Jules followed him back to the changing rooms. Another hand up stopped the ever-present crew from recording and following them.

“I said don’t.”

“Your mouth said don’t. But you’re the one holding my hand. So maybe not no…”

 

Pres walked until he stopped in the passageway leading outside. Pres stood before Jules, looking him over, patiently waiting until finally, Julian started speaking. 

“It hurts Presko…”

“What hurts? Tell me.” His voice equally a whisper.

“I’ve got a headache from crying, my heart… it all hurts.”

Pres grabbed him up tightly in a passionate embrace. “I’m sorry Jules. I am so sorry.” Pres rubbed circles on his back, stroking his hair. “What can I do my Jules?” 

Jules rested easily against Pres. “This…”

 

“How did you know?” Jules nuzzled Pres, his love’s warmth and presence an instant balm to his weary soul.

“Know what?” Pres placed a kiss to Jules forehead, feeling him relax against him.

“That I wasn’t all right. How did you know?”

“I know you my Jules.” Pres shrugged. “I just knew.”


	2. Taste

Pres was reading, lying in bed scanning some newspapers interspersed with clips and notes for the upcoming game. He swiped across his tablet, worrying his lip unconsciously. The news was interesting, but the game material was a bit disconcerting. He wasn’t nervous about the game – to do what he loved with a collection of his friends week in and week out was only ever a joy – but he realised he needed to work on some aspects of his game, and pay particular attention to the overall notes relating to the backline.

Pres looked up to find Julian leaning against the doorframe. He was shivering slightly, standing there in only his pyjama pants and socks. He had a goofy smile on his face, a playful naughty thing brightening his eyes.

“How long have you been there?” Pres asked, wondering why Jules was still standing at the door. “Come to bed, you’re shivering.”

Jules all but scampered over, the smile turning tantalizing as he climbed atop the covers and stalked towards Pres.

“Not because I’m cold. I’ve been there for a while. I can’t even tell you how long. I was watching you. I hadn’t meant to. I just saw you, reading, lost in thought, deep in concentration. 

The thing you did with your mouth…” Jules boxed Pres in underneath him, uncaring that the tablet was forgotten on Pres lap, any work he had to do cancelled in lieu of. “That mouth…” Jules brushed his lips over Pres’.

“Jules,” Pres smiled against Jules lips. He could see his evening plans slowly falling away, Jules distraction only escalating until they were wrapped up in each other and the outside world forgotten. “Jules, I was reading…”

“I’m not stopping you,” Jules slid the tablet out from under him, laying it aside as he trailed fingers over Pres cheeks, over the pout of his lips. “Keep reading…” 

Jules’ tongue tasted a sip of Pres, a contented purr escaping his lips. Delicate, kisses, traipsing fingers ghosting over skin. Jules studied his Presko through touch and taste all night.


	3. Kiss

They kissed. All the time. Playfully, passionately, tenderly, chaste and in passing. They kissed and touched and held hands and caressed and teased. They were amorous and affectionate. They had just never kissed in public. Not in front of the local and world’s media.

It had not been a conscious decision. It had simply happened that way. Until the game Pres went up to clear a header, and got a boot to the head. He crumpled to the pitch like a discarded ragdoll and Julian’s world fell apart, suspended in chaos and disorder for 7minutes.

 

A thunderous cry erupted around the stadium: home fans incensed and outraged at the reckless move. The pitch shrunk to the PSG 6yard box: a tangle of bodies, yells and violent shoves. Jules vision dissolved into precise clarity: all he saw was Pres on the ground. He didn’t consciously register moving, but he was sprinting to the box. He wasn’t sure if the bodies pressed around him were propelling him forward or trying to hold him back. That’s why he couldn’t deny that he had swung his arm up, elbow shooting backwards sharply, fist curled in a menacing punch forward, clearing his path. 

He cleared the traffic of bodies in his way, dropping to his knees beside the medics, hovering beside Presko who still hadn’t moved. He reached for Pres’ hand, his other brushing carelessly across his own face to clear his swimming vision.

“Wake up Pres. Wake up. I’m right here.” He pressed the limp knuckles in his hand to his lips. Holding them against his mouth, he breathed his prayers and leaden hopes over the skin.

The medics spoke, words washing over him. Again, Jules pleaded with his love. “You gotta wake up Presko. I’m right here. Please come back.”

A neck-brace was fitted. An emergency cart had driven onto the field. Three medics had rolled Pres onto a spinal-board to be transported off the field. Whatever work took place, Jules kneeling beside his love was unbothered and unmoved. His eyes searching this face, so familiar and beloved to him, looking for a tiny flicker of recognition, any sign of awakening.

“Julian, they have to go.” A voice floated to him: familiar, authoritative. He trusted them, didn’t lash out.

Julian leaned forward, an automatic inclination, and placed his lips against his love’s. A desperate plea one last time, a hopeful inspiration passed in a tender kiss. Still warm: a lingering thought of Romeo and Juliet flashed through his mind.   
He replaced Pres hand gently over his middle, fooling himself into thinking he had felt a weak protest at being unhanded.

Arms held Julian up, drawing him away from the stretcher as the medics loaded up their charge. Once Pres was safely secured, the cart drove off, speedily cutting towards the side-lines and descending down the tunnel.

 

When Pres came to, he was told the first two things he did were to outstretch his fingers as if grasping back at a hand holding his, and touch his mouth as if in remembrance of a kiss. The first thing he said was ‘Jules’.

The second time he said ‘Jules’, his love was standing beside him, silent tears of relief streaking Julian’s face.

“I’m ok. The docs checked me out. But I’m ok.”

Jules placed a tentative hand in Pres’, their foreheads coming to rest together. “Kim I was scared.”

A murmur and gentle nod came back in reply. 

“I also hit Rabiot, I was told. I didn’t even realise.” Drax grinned faintly, shrugging.

Pres pulled back to assess him, staring in shock. “Why Adrien? He didn’t hit me. And even that… I know it was an accident!”

Jules nodded at the truth in his words, his eyes tracing this face he loved so much, seeing life and vitality again. “After you… after, I was running to you. And – I was told – Adrien was in my way. I tried to push past him, and he didn’t know it was me and I suppose he was just trying to stop a crowd. I wasn’t thinking so I punched him in the neck so he would move.

He’s ok. Got a little bruise but was fine. I thought I was going to be red carded. But I only got a yellow. They couldn’t even sub me off…” Jules shrugged in faint frustration. “A lot happened.”

“It sounds like a lot happened!” Pres chuckled, drawing Jules face to look at him. “I was asked to recall the last thing I remember. And I told the Doctors, that I thought I heard you talking to me. And I was sure I felt you kiss me. Did you…”

“Yeah, yes. On the pitch. All I was thinking about was you. Presko, I was really scared.” Jules worried his lip for a moment, eyes earnest and downcast.

“Kiss me again… kiss me now.”

Jules looked up, relief and abundant warmth flowing from him. Nodding minutely, he leaned forward. Their hands grasped and gently caressed, lips mingling in tantalizing re-acquaintance. Pres’ fingers rested on the nape of Jules neck, drawing him closer still, erasing the faint worry, agonising distance and paralysing horror of the last few hours. Julian sighed, deepening the kiss, drawing Pres closer.


End file.
